Of Milk and Miracles
by Enaid Mora
Summary: Spoilers for Series 2. John is getting his miracle and his milk.


**AN: This is an expanded** **version of a story I wrote for the OTLivestream people. I love you guys! Dedicated to all of you. Let me know what you guys think!  
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**Spoilers for Sherlock Series 2**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and I don't have a beta.**

Sherlock knew it was time to return. He felt it in his bones. His gaze swept across the London street, relishing in the sight of it. He had been gone a long time. His phone moaned in his pocket, a smile barely flashed across his face. One more miracle it said. John still texted his phone. He had been forced to modify his inbox to allow for more text message because he didn't want to delete a single one, delete a single piece of John he could keep with him. Today was the day of the miracle. He was back in London, back on Baker Street, back for John.

He looked at the building, noticing the recent paint job on the door and all the small differences three years made. He froze before picking the lock. He had mastered that skill long ago and now had it down to perfection due to his recent activities. The lock was child's play after some of the locks he was presented with while hunting Moriarty's lieutenants. Armed with milk and the knowledge that the network was destroyed he walked into 221B to find it the same as when he left. The seventeen steps felt the same as they always had beneath his feet, the door swung the same way. Inspecting the flat he quickly deduced John wasn't home yet. He put the milk in the fridge and went into his room. He room was virtually untouched, the only activity appeared to be Mrs. Hudson's tidying. He didn't want to scare John by standing in the living room right when he arrived home. He knew his disappearance must have shaken the man with the nerves of steel. He didn't want to cause more pain. He heard the door open and the telltale cane. The limp was back. _He _was the reason John's limp was back. Sherlock squared his shoulders and tried to school his face into a neutral expression. Time to face the music.

John knew something was off from the moment he crossed the threshold. Normally he would chalk it up to the perpetual lack of sleep he had from nightmares but there was tangible difference today. He gripped his cane tighter, eyes darting around the living room, virtually untouched since that day. Even thinking about it caused something to constrict in his chest, a pain that was no less sharp with time. John cautiously walked further into 221b, cataloging everything as he walked, the violin, the smiley face, the empty chair. Mycroft had tried to sit in it during one of his biweekly visits to make sure John didn't off himself and John had gone mental. That was Sherlock's chair and it would always be Sherlock's chair. Noting nothing of import in the living room, he went into the kitchen, as messy as Sherlock left it. He had been forced to dispose of most of the body parts and experiments but a majority of the equipment lay strewn around. Nothing different on the counters. He opened the fridge and inside there was milk. He hadn't bought milk. John quickly turned around and there he was.

"It was all for you, John."

Sherlock stood in the living room, the same cheekbones, the same scarf, the same Sherlock. Except for his eyes. His eyes looks as haunted and broken as John felt. John's cane fell out of his grip. This couldn't be happening yet a voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he had asked for this, this one last miracle. All the pieces clicked together.

"Three years, Sherlock. Three fucking years," John said, voice thick with emotion. He stood rigidly, staring at the man he believed to be dead. The relief was tinged with a sense of hurt.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock replied, voice breaking. It broke John out of his stupor.

John strode up to the man. "If this is my miracle I demand more than milk," punctuating his remark by poking Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock looked confused for a moment before John surged forward and kissed him, channeling all the rage and grief and relief into the kiss. He pressed himself up against Sherlock, taking in his warmth and the feeling of his heart beating, clutching at Sherlock. Sherlock's arms slid around John, holding him close. Sherlock's heart was racing as fast as his. But more importantly it was beating. He had Sherlock back. His consulting detective. John pulled back, out of the kiss and Sherlock smiled. "Anything you want, John. It's yours."

John searched Sherlock's face and found an emotion he had never seen before. Sherlock was so sincere in his desire to please John, to make John happy after those three years. John exhaled shakily, his fingers tracing patterns on Sherlock's arm.

"I was rather expecting you'd punch me," Sherlock remarked, cupping John's face, taking in all the differences and regretting missing their slow evolution. Those three years had been torture. The fear of losing John had been the only thing that make him capable of staying away.

"I'm saving that for later."

Sherlock chuckled, feeling the best he had felt in living memory. He had John back and John was safe.

"Don't you ever do that again," John said, voice breaking. Sherlock could tell John had deduced why he had gone and why he was back now. Sherlock felt a surge of pride. Of course his doctor would figure it out.

"Never." Sherlock pulled John closer and kissed him, savoring the feeling of their bodies pressed together. After three years, Sherlock was finally home.


End file.
